


Like a Long Lost Friend

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes/Watson. 09 movieverse.  AS COWBOYS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Long Lost Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ shkinkmeme - Prompt was "I'd kinda like to see Holmes and Watson as cowboys. This could be sun stroke talking."

Watson is used to his companion’s silence by now—the way that he will retreat inside himself for hours at a time, eyebrows drawn together as he works through something in his mind. When the man does talk, it’s usually startling proclamations of things he shouldn’t know the half of, or oddball observations about the surrounding terrain—things like _that tree is an equal distance from that rock as it is to your tent_ or _we were here last year, on the twelfth of June._

Watson is used to the way Holmes will seemingly focus his entire attention on a task, only to reveal through some comment or action that his mind was divided at least in two, and most likely into several different processes, and that each of those divided sections most likely came up with something Watson would not have come by naturally.

He is used to the way Holmes has a habit of attracting trouble, be it dust storms or thieves or drunks in the taverns they rarely have a chance to enter, and that moreover Holmes will not bend to his care, despite the fact that before Watson went West he used to be a respectable Doctor of sorts, and that most battles with Holmes will end in a loss unless he slips Holmes a little something in his liquor and patches him up as he snores unconscious by the fire.

They’ve ridden together going on five years now. They’re mostly free-range, and they pick up odd jobs sometimes between driving cattle. Watson still doesn’t know what drove Holmes out here, and what’s keeping him from going back. Knowing Holmes, he probably knows about the woman that broke Watson’s heart and sent him off to find a different landscape and carve for himself a sky that doesn’t reflect her eyes, but Watson has taken a page from Holmes’ reticence, and rarely talks about the past.

Most times they sleep underneath the stars, although they’ve got a piece of canvas they can fashion into a tent and curl up underneath when the rains pour down onto the plains, the crash of thunder spooking the horses.

Holmes likes the horses. It’s one of the few things the man seems to care about, but when he brushes them down his fingers are sure, yes, but something more—not gentle, but almost loving. He babies the horses sometimes, usually when times are slim and he’s planning on going without more oft than not.

Sometimes Watson feels as if taking care of his partner is more work than anything else, as he has a tendency of going without food or sleep if not reminded.

Watson doesn’t mind, though, to be honest. He’s not quite sure how he fell in with the man, but while they’ve never out-and-out discussed the way they’ve stayed together, it’s obvious neither is inclined to go anywhere.

Besides, they work well together—their give and take, their odd eccentricities, their tendency to risk life and limb for the other at the drop of a Stetson. So much time with just the two of them and the wide world around them, long grass around their legs and the sun beating down on the back of their necks, and they should be at each other’s throats by now. Instead, Watson is more curious and intrigued at the man than he was in the beginning, when he was simply running away.

His blue-eyed girl doesn’t haunt his dreams anymore, but sometimes, when the thunder drives them under a makeshift roof and they curl into each other to keep out of the rain, sometimes Watson thinks on chaotic hair and dark stubble and full lips, especially when Holmes fits himself against Watson’s body as if he were the missing piece all along.

Holmes can ride like nothing Watson has ever seen before. Oh, Watson can ride well enough, and he’s a shot that Holmes has proven to be in desperate need of having at his back, but when Holmes rides, it’s like he’s part of the horse, leaning back slightly, long legs snug against his horse’s sides but never having to press unnecessarily, sometimes fabric and horse hair blending together until it’s useless trying to see where they separate.

Watson doesn’t like it when Holmes gallops off, desperate to clear his mind. He never gives warning, and he never says how long he’ll be gone, but at least he always comes back, usually with some sort of trophy and some sort of wound and a proud grin that softens Watson up despite himself.

Late some nights, Holmes lies down next to Watson and points up at the clear night sky and starts pointing out the constellations, telling their stories, his voice pitched low, a soothing murmur against the cool air.

Watson never asks him where he’s from, although he can recognize a soft Southern drawl against his own Northern accent. He doesn’t ask what he did before, even though the curiosity of it sometimes consumes him. But they’re out on the plains, and they’re not supposed to have a past out here, they’re not supposed to be tied down to anything or anyone.

Perhaps Holmes doesn’t say it, between his silences and his babbling and the familiar bickering they settle into when Watson’s making dinner and Holmes is counting cattle head, the numbers thick and comforting in his head, but Watson doesn’t need the words.

When the rain is coming down overhead, Holmes slides his body against Watson’s, and his eyes are dark as he slides a thumb along Watson’s jawline, as he touches him and makes him writhe as the thunder crashes overhead, makes him shiver and whimper as the lightning flashes above them, electricity thrumming through their bodies and the air.

Watson might not know about Holmes’ past, but for now he knows that wherever Holmes runs off, however far he goes, he always finds his way back, bruised and disheveled and mouthing the word _‘home’_ into Watson’s neck, and for now, at least, it’s enough.

 

  
_...Finis..._   



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